The Trajectory of Caring
by lucelafonde
Summary: Sherlock goes home alone after the wedding but Mycroft knows better than to leave his brother to himself. (slight spoilers for The Sign of Three towards the end). Holmescest (incest; you have been warned)


There lay a heavy silence over his house that pressed him into his seat and kept him down as if the absence of noise had finally joined forces with gravity. He kept waiting for a call, knowing it was only a matter of time before something had to give, but the silence kept a tight reign over the premises.

Nothing.

He glanced at his watch, brandy swirling lazily in his other hand, throwing ripples over his patience. Surely the festivities should have come to an end by now? He tried to avoid weddings whenever he could, but he was at least moderately familiar with the proceedings, so he was reasonably certain the formal parts should be long over.

No call. No nothing.

He had a bad feeling about this. He had hoped they were past this now, given the recent lack of activity, but it seemed he had miscalculated. He should have known better than to hope.

#

_"So this is where you live nowadays? Charming."_

_"Sod off."_

_"I'm tempted."_

_"Well, nobody asked you to come, so why don't you heave yourself out before you break a hole through my floor?"_

_"And miss the chance to hold this over you when you are sober? Not for the world."_

_"Gloating doesn't suit you."_

_"I'm sure practice will improve that."_

#

It took him all of fifteen minutes to get out of one house and into another, but once he had climbed the stairs, he hesitated. It didn't feel like usual. There was a certain lack of… decay in the air, so he allowed himself to stop and lean against the door frame for a moment, observing the figure on the sofa with suspicion.

"I didn't do anything," Sherlock said without so much as opening his eyes, doubtlessly sensing his presence as he had so many times before.

"Apparently," Mycroft replied vaguely, slowly moving into the room, "but then I can't be sure, can I?"

"You're getting slow," he said, ignoring the quip. "Did I catch you at a bad time? Working out again?" His lips curled into a devious smile, as if he could see right through him, which was probably the case.

#

_"This job doesn't suit you."_

_"Oh?"_

_"You gained another two pounds since I last saw you. I knew you were aspiring to take over the world, but I never imagined you'd mean it so literally."_

_"Funny. It would be funnier still if I hadn't just bailed you out for possession with that unsuitable job of mine."_

_"Everyone needs a hobby."_

_"If only yours were worth my time."_

_"In a hurry, Mycroft?"_

_"Always, but that's beside the point."_

_"Good. Then roll away, would you? I have things to do."_

_"I doubt it."_

#

"If you knew I was coming, you could at least have made tea," Mycroft sighed, dropping into an unoccupied armchair. Sherlock shrugged, rolling over so he could look at his brother.

"I gave up on that for the time being."

"Surely even you didn't manage to muck that up," Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow, twirling his umbrella thoughtfully in his hand. He looked clean, and his words were just as precise and meant to sting as ever. He didn't even sound drunk.

It was even worse than he'd expected.

"Mhm, there was an incident," he shrugged, not delving into the details, "and anyway, I wouldn't bother getting up for you."

They said nothing for a while, skidding around the edges of his visit as if they didn't both know how it was going to end. Mycroft wondered idly why they even bothered keeping up appearances anymore. Nothing ever changed anyway.

#

_"Your landlord asked me kindly to make you leave."_

_"Odd; I was just about to do the same thing."_

_"What did you do to him?"_

_"Oh, you know, this and that. The severed head probably did it."_

_"Charming."_

_"He apparently disagrees."_

_"I wonder why."_

_"People are dull creatures."_

_"And you, brother, are homeless."_

_"Mhm, well. Not for the moment. He needs to give me two weeks notice. I have now received said notice and will act accordingly."_

_"Scheming already?"_

_"Oh, I wouldn't call it that, but considering I have to leave anyway, I might as well have some fun before I go, and since you're here already..."_

_"Fine, but I have a meeting with Korea in an hour. Make it quick."_

#

"You know you could always find a new roommate," he threw into the silence, curious if Sherlock would even bother answering.

"I'm not going back."

"I never expected you to."

He snorted, turning towards the wall again, and curled into a ball. Mycroft stood up with a heavy sigh, carefully propping his umbrella against the chair before he walked over to the couch and let his hand settle on his brother's shoulder. "He's on his honeymoon. He won't be back for a while."

"Oh PLEASE," Sherlock hissed without real bite, "as soon as I step in there it will take me weeks to escape again."

Mycroft chuckled darkly, wondering whether he realised that no one but himself had ever kept him from leaving. "But you're getting so much better at it every time."

He sighed, turning towards him almost against his will.

Always at odds with himself. So difficult.

"I'm clean," he repeated, as if that was the only thing that would warrant his stay.

"So I gather."

#

_"Judging by your stubble I'd say three days?"_

_"Four, but I'm pleased to know some of your braincells survived."_

_"It oddly suits you. Makes you look more… villainous."_

_"Good. I'll keep that in mind the next time I receive a call from the hospital, shall I? Spares me the decision between staying to watch you turn into a vegetable and going home to cleanse myself of this place."_

_"Dramatic."_

_"Hardly."_

_"Does it suit me?"_

_"Being a vegetable or that ghastly beast in your face?"_

_"Well, the vegetable kink would be new."_

_"Go back to sleep, Sherlock."_

_"Will you shave if I do?"_

_"No."_

#

"You don't have to keep an eye on me," Sherlock insisted, shaking off the hand on his shoulder, "not that that ever stopped you."

Mycroft smiled slightly, and it didn't reach his eyes.

"And why would I, really?" he mused. "You're right, of course. There is no reason whatsoever to be worried about you. We've already established that you can handle both an arrest AND a hospitalisation perfectly well. I am merely curious to see what will happen next. Grant me that pleasure."

Sherlock said nothing as he curled up again.

"Should I check the usual places or have you become more creative?"

He stilled for a moment before he exhaled loudly and dug his hand in between the cushions. A second later he had recovered a needle and handed it silently to Mycroft.

"I thought about it," he admitted in a sulking tone, "but then I thought what's the point if you're gonna show up and spoil the fun anyway."

Mycroft went into the kitchen and smashed the syringe in the sink before he returned and sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning in closely to stare imploringly into his eyes.

"Is that all?"

"Yes," he hissed, retracting as much as he could, "I told you, I'm clean."

#

_"What are you doing here?"_

_"What do you mean? I'm just paying my brother a visit. Surely that's no reason to act so… suspicious."_

_"You never 'just' visit. What do you want?"_

_"The antique chess set you put on fire when you were seven, a comfortable armchair that fits into my living room, an end to the discussion with Poland and Russia, and all the cocaine supplies you've acquired since my last effort."_

_"What—"_

_"Tremor in the right hand. So obvious."_

_"I'm clean."_

_"Hallucinations?"_

_"No. I told you—"_

_"Do you want me to get John involved? I'm sure as a doctor he would be more than capable of—"_

_"Fine."_

_"So you DO learn."_

#

Mycroft was silent for a long time before he breathed in deeply and said: "Tremor in the right hand. Gives you away every time."

Sherlock jerked back, clutching said hand with wide eyes. "When did—?"

"You've been acting strange ever since you came back." He shrugged. "At first I hoped it was perhaps just the lingering effects of your experiences abroad, but it's been six months, Sherlock. I won't look away forever."

"I didn't take anything."

"No, you didn't," Mycroft agreed, "tonight. But don't bother denying it any further, I grow tired of this game. I'm no John Watson, Sherlock. You can't fool me."

"Why do you care anyway?" he hissed, instinctively crossing his arms in front of his chest in an effort to stop any telling movements. "Just get lost, would you?"

He sighed, leaning further forward, and gripped his left arm tightly before yanking it towards him. "You know I can't do that." His hand moved to roll up the shirt and reveal a series of puncture wounds he was all too familiar with. "But at least now we can stop pretending and talk about your future seriously."

#

_"So this is it then? John finally popped the question and all. I assume you will be living on your own from now on?"_

_"I've been living on my own for months."_

_"Yes, but now it's official."_

_"Is that glee I hear?"_

_"Always so suspicious."_

_"Always so spiteful."_

_"You're wrong, Sherlock, I am truly happy for the good doctor and his soon-to-be-wife."_

_"But?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"Mycroft."_

_"Well, I'll leave you to it then. I'm sure you have… things to do."_

_"MYCROFT."_

_"You know how to reach me if you need anything."_

#

"There's nothing to discuss," Sherlock spat and tore his arm away from his brother, "so please see yourself out and never come back, would you?"

He sighed, catching the retreating hand in his and gently linked their fingers as he slowly traced his brother's with his own. "So childish."

"I didn't ask you to come," Sherlock reminded him petulantly, but he didn't move his hand, and Mycroft could feel it trembling in his own. He tightened his grip to still the movements and leaned forward until his mouth touched Sherlock's neck. The unconscious fidgeting beneath him stopped immediately, and he smiled silently at the small victory before he pressed a tender kiss to the exposed skin and leaned slightly back again to speak.

"No fever. I suppose that's something."

"I told you I didn't take anything," Sherlock said with extreme exasperation, meeting his brother's eyes with a stern look. "Stop looking for things that are not there."

#

_"Interesting… choice for a companion."_

_"I thought so too."_

_"Not exactly what I expected."_

_"One more good feature of his then."_

_"You do realise that he will never TRULY understand you, don't you?"_

_"Mycroft."_

_"I know the thrill of having a puppy follow you around and praise you wherever you go must be too hard to resist, but in the end he is just human."_

_"Your point?"_

_"Don't push him too hard or he will vanish."_

_"Jealous, Mycroft?"_

_"Hardly."_

#

"Indulge me." He leaned slightly forward again, this time eye-to-eye with his brother. He watched Sherlock's tongue unconsciously dart out to wet his lips before he said lowly: "Hallucinations?"

"No."

Too quick.

"What about?" he asked loftily, but his insides were twisting painfully at the thought. He had been here before. He had seen where the road ended. It was not a nice place to be, especially not if he was there for his brother.

Sherlock sneered, trying to extract his hand from Mycroft's iron grip, but he failed as was to be expected.

"That's none of your business."

"All right." He raised his free hand and buried it inside the thick locks to pull his brother closer. "Dilated pupils," he observed quietly, his other hand shifting slightly to push his fingers against the thin wrist, "increased heart rate. Erratic breathing." He exhaled slowly against Sherlock's lips, drawing the moment out as long as possible before he suddenly leaned back again and huffed: "And as irritable as ever."

#

_"Sher—"_

_"Sod off."_

_"I really would, but you promised Mummy you'd join us for dinner."_

_"I did no such thing."_

_"I knew you'd forget, so I took the liberty of getting you a suitable attire."_

_"I have several places in mind for where you can shove it."_

_"Creative as ever, I see, and stoned to boot. Lovely."_

_"Nobody asked you to come."_

_"Nobody ever does, yet here I am. Put on the suit."_

_"No."_

_"Fine. I'll take you like this then. I'm sure mother would appreciate it if you put in some sort of effort after seeing here again for the first time in months, but I won't be as picky."_

_"Good."_

_"Sherlock—"_

_"I'll join you just to see how you're going to explain that bite mark now."_

_"… Fine. Get dressed."_

#

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, dragging Mycroft with him by their joined hands as he dropped backwards against the cushions. "It has never stopped you before. I don't even know why I bother anymore."

"Neither do I," Mycroft confessed and moved against Sherlock with a long-suffering sigh as his hand settled lazily against the bony hip beneath him. He had done this too many times already to be shocked at the lack of substance.

"You eat enough for both of us," Sherlock voiced his answer to the thoughts that must have shown plainly on his face, or perhaps they had simply had this conversation too many times already. "But you did lose weight recently."

"So you noticed? Admirable, considering your condition," Mycroft teased, slowly dragging his tongue over the pale neck beneath him.

"I don't like it." A statement of fact, and Mycroft wondered if he could ever get it right.

"Is that so?" he hummed, slowly unbuttoning the soft shirt. "That's not what you said last time."

"I changed my mind."

"Did you now?" He chuckled, drawing his hand over the now exposed chest, revelling in the small shivers he induced with the action.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, always wanting more and faster, it could never be quick enough, and Mycroft drew everything out especially to annoy him— something they both knew but never discussed. "It doesn't suit you."

"There are a lot of things that don't suit me."

#

_"It looks terrible, take it off."_

_"I will do no such thing."_

_"Mycroft."_

_"Sherlock."_

_"It doesn't suit you."_

_"So you said."_

_"Who wears three-piece suits nowadays anyway? What are you, some kind of time travelling mafioso?"_

_"I believe you know the answer to that."_

_"Just take it off."_

_"No."_

_"Are you always this obtuse?"_

_"Are you always that transparent?"_

_"I have no idea what you're talking about."_

_"Of course not."_

#

He huffed, burying his nails in the fabric covering Mycroft's shoulders. "Whatever. You'll never manage to keep that up anyway."

"Of course," he said kindly, indulging his brother as always in between his meticulous ministrations. His deft fingers had popped open the trousers and were now busy exploring everything in reach beyond it, causing Sherlock to inhale sharply and dig his fingers deeper into the suit.

"In retrospect, letting you get your hands on the opportunity to get some exercise for once was probably not the best way to go about it," he murmured absent-mindedly, as always unable to be quiet for any amount of time.

Mycroft chuckled darkly against his skin as he leaned up to meet his eyes with a cocked eyebrow. "An opportunity, are you?"

He could see Sherlock was regretting that choice of words now, but it was already too late to take anything back, so he decided to spare them both an inevitable argument and pressed their lips together with finality. No arguing in a compromising position. It was an unspoken agreement between them just as fighting was foreplay. Once they had reached this state, Mycroft's patience for his brother's childish whims ended and he put a stop to them before they could get out of hand.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed in fake exasperation, and Mycroft could tell he was secretly anxious for him to continue, "but only because it's a special day and all."

#

_"I must admit, this is not what I expected when I came here."_

_"Oh, so you DID expect something?"_

_"Sherlock, I taught you everything you know. I've been aware of your childish crush for years, but I never… well."_

_"Then this will be easier than I thought."_

_"Don't count on it."_

_"But brother dear, you taught me everything I know."_

_"Sherlock."_

_"Let's skip the senseless discussion I'm sure you've already concluded in your head just as I have and cut straight to the interesting part, shall we?"_

_"Sherlock."_

_"I'll pretend to listen later."_

_"I doubt it."_

#

They had migrated to the bed when Sherlock had complained about an imaginary cold draft which Mycroft considered to be code for 'stay the night', and his brother was now curled up tightly against him, limps threatening to squeeze him into whatever shape their owner saw fit. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, so he simply accepted his fate and suffered in silence while Sherlock wrote distractedly against his skin with a slightly trembling finger.

"Equations?" he asked, his own hand gently stroking up and down the thin frame pressing against him as he wondered idly whether he could persuade Sherlock to consider rehab while John was away on his honeymoon and wouldn't know about it.

"Baby names," Sherlock clarified with a focused look on his face.

"Congratulations."

"For John and Mary," he waved off, "although I doubt they'll be asking me."

Mycroft hummed contemplatively, stilling his movements in favour of snaking his arm around his brother's figure. "I think they will."

"That would be fairly disastrous."

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss against the unruly hair tickling his nose. "They already asked you to be best man, Sherlock. Of course they'll want you to be godfather."

He didn't have to look to know Sherlock was grimacing against his chest. "What a terrible idea that is. Extremely inadvisable."

"Somebody ought to stop them."

"Well, apparently no one ever does," Sherlock said and dropped his hand flat against his belly. "How tedious."

"I'm sure it is."

"Do you think they'll accept any name I give them?"

"Don't use Sherrinford," Mycroft warned with a cautionary look down to pre-empt the frown he was sure to follow.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, you can't name a child after your skull."

Sherlock huffed, burying his head in Mycroft's shoulder with a pout. "No such rule exists."

He raised his eyebrows, allowing his free hand to play with the soft curls against his neck. "Shall we ask John about that?"

Sherlock grunted unhappily, but he had conceded the point by not arguing back.

"Good. Now sleep, we can think of a name tomorrow."

"Nothing unisex," Sherlock warned with a yawn, "that's terrible."

"Yes, TWO suitable names for the little Watson. Now shush. I'm trying to sleep."

"Are not."

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Be quiet."

"All right. But only because it's a special day and all."


End file.
